


Floral Arrangements (For Funerals)

by cupidsintern



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Curse Breaking, Established Relationship, Fairy Tale Elements, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Kinda, M/M, Magic, Magical Realism, Mommy Issues, Sleeping Beauty Elements, Spells & Enchantments, Steve Is Prince Charming, Temporary Character Death, bc i hate him and do not want to write abt him, he sleeping, hes not dead, jk he is on vacation, longing yearning and pining, mike is not there bc i hate him, peoples relationships with their mothers in general no this isnt about me at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28871265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupidsintern/pseuds/cupidsintern
Summary: When he was a kid, Billy's mom gave him a pendant on a gold chain and told him never to take it off.Weird. Witchy. But Billy trusted her.She told him she loved him. More than anyone.Billy never took the necklace off.He sort of objected to magic being done on minors. And he always sort of knew that’s what it was, and that maybe it wasn't totally… kosher. But he never took it off.He still had it on now. If any light could have gotten in through the black and satin lining of the coffin, it would have glinted, still gold.Because he wasn’t dead. He was only asleep.And everyone knows how to wake Sleeping Beauty.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 12
Kudos: 40





	Floral Arrangements (For Funerals)

**Author's Note:**

> look at what i've accomplished!   
> do you think a depressed person could make this???
> 
> anyway hey guys welcome back to me shoving magic into fics bc it makes me happy. if you're reading this, hey thanks! thats way cool of you. no one reads the notes. hope ur having a good day and enjoy the fic.

Steve brought roses on instinct. A dozen red roses, like you'd bring to a date. Or to a grave. This was both, wasn't it?

First of probably many dates where Steve would be sitting across from a polished rock. Rather than, you know, a person. Alive.

Billy never let Steve bring him roses. Said it was too cheesy. Too much. But Steve could always sort of tell he was just brushing it off to avoid blushing redder than the flowers themselves. 

So maybe Steve brought roses just because he knew it would piss Billy off a little. If he could have been there to be pissed off. 

Steve parked at the edge of the graveyard. Had to motivate to stand up. He’d left roses laying shotgun. Leaning over to get them, he noticed the ashtray, half full, and looked away too quick, smacked his wrist on the edge of the wheel getting out of the car. 

So he was standing, holding a dozen roses, and realized he hadn’t worn black like a fucking idiot. He’d just worn jeans and a t-shirt- it wasn't even cold yet. 

Steve wouldn’t get to hear Billy bitch about how cold it got how early this year.

Steve didn't know if he had it in him to walk from here to- 

But he already brought the roses. 

Might as well. 

Steve had hated the funeral- two days ago. Mostly because Max had to sit up front even though she’d been crying into Steve’s shoulder for the half hour before they all had to sit down- Billy’s parents were more religious than Steve had realized. 

Steve sat in the back. Decided halfway through the dumb scripted speech about how “William was an upstanding young man” that he couldn’t take it and got up to go outside. 

Walked around back of the stupid fucking whitewash-brick church and crouched, pulling a half-smoked pack he’d stolen from Billy’s car two weeks ago and a lighter from his pocket. 

He had to  _ do  _ something. Or he’d end up crying again. And he hated doing that. 

Boots crunched on the gravel behind the building- too light to be Billy‘s, Steve was always listening for that step- but it was only Robin. Steve didn't have to stop trying to light his cigarette- wouldn't even spark. Were his hands shaking?

Robin didn't say anything, she just sank down to sit next to him, leaned her back against the wall. 

“Not gonna tell me I should quit?” Steve got out, relieved his voice was steadier than he thought it would be. 

“Nope.” Robin tilted her head up, squinting in the sunlight. “But you should.”

That might have made Steve smile. It didn't. He got his cigarette lit, almost took too long of a drag, but if he coughed, he would definitely cry. And he didn't want to cry in front of Robin. Again.

Robin looked so pretty in black, but the sun made her dress look almost grey. 

“You wanna stay out here for the rest of it?” Robin asked him, gentle as anything. 

Steve fiddled with the buttons on his suit jacket with his free hand. “Dunno.”

Robin just nodded. 

Steve sat a little lower, let his head tip against her shoulder. “Can you come over again?” He asked her. 

She frowned, guilty maybe. She shouldn't feel guilty, she’d come over every night since-

“Not tonight.”

Like cracking your head against a doorway, Steve felt the vibration of a much lower, smoother ‘ _ not tonight, pretty boy, _ ’ in his skull.

_ “C’mon, why not?”  _

_ “Folks want me home. I’ve been ‘going out too much.’” Billy put air quotes around the word.  _

_ “Fuck that. You’re not even going out.” Steve had squeezed his arms around Billy's chest a little tighter. Then, “Tomorrow night?” _

_ Billy smiled, his all-teeth sparkly smile. “Promise.” _

“Steve?”   
Steve sat up, refocused on Robin’s voice. “Hm?”   
“I said I don’t think I can come over tonight. Is that, like, okay?”   
“Yeah. Sure.” Steve puffed his cig again, not looking at her. 

“You’ll… be okay?”   
“Yeah.” He looked at her then. Her brows were furrowed. 

“Just. Please call me. If you need anything. You know I have my own line.”

“I know.”

“Okay.” She still looked worried. 

Steve waited long enough to say goodbye to Max. She hugged him too tight- hurt where his ribs had gotten bruised the week before. He hugged her back. 

She didn't cry again. But she took a little too long to let go. 

Steve drove Robin home. She didn't talk, but he could tell she was staring at him.

“Call me tonight, at some point.” She stopped to bend down outside the car door when they got to her place. 

“Okay.”

“And don’t-” She blinked a little, collecting her thoughts. “Don’t do anything... rash.”

Both of them could remember the night after Starcourt, into the early hours of the morning, Steve feeling like he was in a nightmare that refused to fucking end when he told Robin  _ “I don’t think I can do this without him.” _

_ “Steve-” She was crying like she was trying not to, not even out of her Scoops uniform yet, holding his arm even as he tried to pull away.  _

_ “I can’t- I’m not- I can’t be on my own. I need him-” _

“I’m not gonna kill myself, Robin.” Steve sighed a little. 

She flinched at the words. “Okay.” Her hair looked like a halo, pulled up and backed by the sun. 

She squeezed his hand before ducking her head back out of the window and walking away. 

He hadn't even realized she was holding it. 

Steve didn't listen to any music on the ride back to his house. Didn’t want to risk it. 

Didn't even really let himself think as he parked, got out, let the sounds of his door clicking shut and the gravel under his feet slide through his head, nothing to catch them. Nothing he wanted to remember. Didn't want to lose any space that could be better occupied by memories that tasted like ash and chlorine and sweat and night air and Paco Rabanne-

Too loud. Steve needed the world quiet right now. Not as quiet as his house would feel with no one in it, thought. Steve didn't count as a person when the house was empty- he became a piece of furniture. A decorative abstract sculpture like the ones his mother loved to collect on the mantle, unable to keep himself company. 

He pulled the door open, was ready for silence, but was met by-

“Welcome back, darling!” shouted from the kitchen. 

Steve startled a little. “Uh, hey, mom!” He called back. “I didn’t see the car.”

And briefly he wondered if she was cooking, but as he walked in, of course she wasn't. Just getting white wine out of the fridge. 

“Your father took it to get looked at. We had to come back early- the engine was making this strange noise- and I mean, I told him we should just get a new one, I never liked this model to begin with- '' She stood up, bottle in hand, crossed to the counter with her glass on it. “You look nice.” She smiled at him.

“Thanks.” He ran a hand over the bottom seam of his jacket.

She lifted the bottle and raised her meticulously plucked eyebrows at him. 

“I’m good.” 

She shrugged, and poured her own glass. “So what’s the occasion?” She smoothed her hand over Steve's shoulder as she passed him to sit at the kitchen table. “A date?” She sounded so hopeful. 

“A funeral.”

“Oh?” Brow furrowed, she looked over at him. “For  _ who? _ ”

Steve let himself lie on autopilot. Just like he’d have lied about it before. “Max’s brother. Died in the, uh. The mall fire.”   
“Who’s Max again?” She sipped her wine.

“A friend.”

She nodded. 

Honestly, Steve didn't look anything like his father. People always said that when they saw the three of them- perfect, happy family. 

He looked just like his mom. With her straight nose and wavy pile of hair, pinned up so the characteristic swoop at the front got all the attention, even now with its light streaking of grey. Tasteful moles across her cheek- 

On the rare occasion that Steve's parents acted like they loved each other, usually for show at parties, Steve’s father would say he knew she was the one when he first saw her- because she looked like a golden age movie star. 

“Steve?” 

Steve realized he’d been staring. He cleared his throat. “Yeah?”

His mother’s voice got soft. “Sweetheart, are you alright?”

“I-” Steve was ready with the response. Totally prepared with the “ _ I’m fine just tired”.  _ But, he tried to push it out. Tried to brush it off and. Nothing. 

Steve shook his head, trying to get his lips to move but-

She hadn't talked to him like that in so long. He crossed to her before he really knew what he was doing, knelt at her side, put his head in her lap, he could feel her surprise before he screwed his eyes shut, inhaled Chanel No. 5 on the silk of her blouse and exhaled one cough of a sob, one smooth jolt through his whole body. He hadn't cried since the night of. Not once. But he was crying now. Tears clung to his cheeks. And maybe that was a bad move, maybe she would freak out or something- they weren't exactly. Affectionate. 

But Steve could feel her thin fingers, long nails, run through the hair at the back of his head as she murmured, “Oh, Stevie.” She sounded so worried, finding his hand to hold in her own- cool and smooth. Like photographs of old movie stars. Or a statue. He was holding her hand too tight, he knew. But he didn’t want to let go. He just wanted to be there, to just breathe, hold his mom’s hand. 

After a moment, she lifted his head up, even as he tried to turn away- “What’s wrong- Steve, honey-”

He shook his head, tried to control his breathing. 

She pursed her lips. “I know you were there, the night of the fire. But I didn’t… know.” She was saying, but the sound slid through Steve's head, no traction, just like the gravel and the car door and every silent sunrise that had happened since the fourth. But then, “We should have come home sooner.”

Steve blinked. She was really trying, for once. He pressed the last of his tears away, shrugged. 

She smoothed her thumb over the back of his hand. “I love you very much, darling.” 

Steve knew she meant it. Even if she never said it, and was maybe only saying it now hoping it would help. But she meant it. Just like she meant it when she used to say it all the time when he was a kid. Two versions of his mother, one warm like a painting, the other cold like marble. Both beautiful. Both loved him. 

“Love you, too.” He managed. 

She searched his face, but did not speak again. “Why don’t you get changed before your father gets back. We can get dinner.” 

He just nodded. Forced himself to stand back up. His hand slid from hers.

He sort of wished he could tell her. But they weren't like that, even if she wouldn't, you know, disown him or something. They weren't like that. 

“You don’t have to uh, tell dad about this.” Steve mumbled, already looking at the doorway, sniffing hard, once, trying to clear his system. 

She smiled a little, brow still knitted. “Of course.”

Steve nodded. Went upstairs to get changed. 

  
  


Steve was silent for most of dinner- they got italian, and thankfully only ran into one person his parents knew that he had to shake hands with. 

He spent most of the hour or so thinking of what to say to Robin on the phone. 

“I cried in my moms lap like a fuckin baby for ten mintues” sounded lame. “Let out some of my pent up emotions” or “let myself experience grief” both sounded stupid. 

“It’s only been a week, remember'' Robin's voice crackled through the receiver when Steve found himself on the phone with her a while later. He sort of wished he’d stop zoning out for such extended periods of time. Sort of wished next time he’d never zone back in-

“You should go easy on yourself.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, can you just repeat back to me what I said so I know you're listening.” She only sounded a little exasperated. 

Steve might have smiled, didn't. “You said I should go easier on myself.”

“Great.”

“Since when are you my grief counselor anyway.” Steve readjusted his grip on the phone in his room. “You’re my friend. I should get a real therapist.”

“You do have all those freebies with the government.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

“Did you get a chance to eat something?” She asked him.

“Got dinner with my parents.” Steve thought back to his mom glancing at him nervously every so often, like maybe he’d go off again. Sort of cheapened their earlier interaction.

“I didn’t know they were in town.” 

“Me neither-” The phone started ringing again, and Steve could guess who it was, so, “Hey, Rob, I think Max is calling me.”

“Okay, talk tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“I love you.” Everyone's favorite thing to say to him today, apparently. 

“Love you, too.”

He picked up the call. It was Max. 

Max had rescued a box of stuff. That's what she said, just “stuff.” And did Steve want to go through it tomorrow morning?

“Neil’s clearing out the room. Don't want him to know I took anything.”

Steve said he’d pick her up. They could get breakfast. 

“I want the jacket. Non negotiable.” Was the first thing Max said when she dropped the box into the passenger side of Steve's car. 

“Ooookay.” He almost smiled. 

Max slammed his door getting in after the box, pulling it onto her lap to open. They had decided on drive-thru for breakfast. Both of them apparently trying to pretend they’d been eating normal. 

Steve felt a little sour at the edges being up this early- and it was already nine. He’d just been leaning on his stash a little harder to get to sleep but. At least he was sleeping now. 

“If I cry, just punch me in the shoulder or something.” She said, pulling the flaps of the box open, digging stuff out.

“I’m not gonna punch you, Max.” Steve tried, making a mental note that if he got even close to crying he should just cut their visit short. No way was he shedding a tear in front of Max. 

She wasn't listening to him, just picking stuff out to set on his dash. 

The jean jacket- “That’s mine.”

“Yeah, man, you already said.”-

T-shirts. Two of them. Max handed both to Steve. He folded them both without really thinking about it, set them on the back seat. 

Then it was a bunch of little stuff. A bottle of cologne Steve grabbed without asking. Some other junk. A rolled up poster. An ashtray. One of two nicknacks that meant nothing to neither Max nor Steve. But they must have meant something to Billy. 

A jewelry box. Various earrings in it, some of them tangled together. A ring. And a bottle cap. 

Steve recognized the bottle cap. It was from their first date. 

He kept it together in front of Max though. 

And they got breakfast. Which they ate silently. And then parted ways.

Steve sat in his car for a while, very aware of the stuff stacked up on his backseat. 

Then he drove home and sat in his driveway because he couldn’t seem to transition from one activity to another without so much fucking effort. 

He let his head fall forward onto his steering wheel without thinking about it, accidentally hit the edge of the horn which made him sit right back up. 

Fuck. Not even graceful when in mourning, huh. 

His parents were still home, so walking up to his room with an armful of random shit might raise some kind of suspicion. They also might just not care. 

But Steve just wanted to be alone right now. 

Quick as he could so he wouldn't have to think, he reached behind his seat and grabbed one of the shirts. 

He held it, looked at it. Then buried his face in it and inhaled. 

Every fiber in his body relaxed. He sunk back against the driver's seat, sighed, a long, relieved sigh, the familiarity washing over him and for a solid gold moment, everything was fine. 

The short relife made the relati that came crashing back down around him even worse. 

Steve would sit in his car and cry into this t-shirt for seven minutes. Then he would put it back in his backseat and go inside like nothing happened. 

He couldn't let it all out at once- or it might actually kill him. If anyone was going to die from a broken heart, it would be Steve.

Steve took a nap. His parents left again. Robin came over.

“You seem. Better?” Was the first thing she said when he opened the door.

Steve nodded without meaning too. “I’m just stoned.”

“Ah.”

Steve furrowed his brow. “I probably should have told you that before you came over. You don’t have to stay if-”

“No!” Robin put out her hands. “I don’t care if you’re high, dingus. I’m just here to hang out with you.”

Steve nodded again. He stepped aside to let her in. 

Robin had been coming over most nights for a while. Steve once expressed his concern that she felt the need to take care of him- she countered by saying she was not without her own shell-shock-

“And I feel. Safe. With you.”

Steve liked being felt safe with. 

Steve suggested they sit in the backyard, by the pool, and Robin said she was down but if he pushed her in she’d stab him. 

“You know? I 100% believe you would do that.”

“Thank you.”

Steve got himself a beer, and got Robin a juice box because “I know you don’t drink.”

“Oh my god, Steve. You get your mom to buy you juice boxes still?”   
“You think my mom would ever set foot in a supermarket? I buy  _ myself  _ juice boxes.”

That made Robin laugh. Steve almost smiled. 

They sat outside. Steve with his beer, Robin with her six ounces of  _ Tropical Blast _ .

And mostly when they would do this they would sit in silence. Poolside watching the water glow. Or on the couch in the den watching hours of MTV go by- the only channel they could ever agree on. 

Steve always thought maybe, tonight would be the night. Any night could be the one he finally talked about it- because that's what you were supposed to do. Talk about it. 

Steve just always had better luck waiting until something else happened, and he could forget. Keep going. Skip the processing part and just… move on. 

“You’re in his chair.” Steve said finally. And it seemed... normal. Like maybe he could talk about Billy if he wasn't  _ dead, _ per say. He just. Wasn't here. 

Robin was looking at him. “Like, you want me to move?-”

“No! No, just.” Steve sipped his beer. “He always sits- sat. There.”   
Robin nodded. 

Steve kept going. “There’s a melted part of the chair arm- look.” He pointed, Robin lifted her arm to say. “Cigarette burn. I Told him that would happen and he put it out there anyway.” 

“Sounds like him. From what you’ve said.”

“Yeah.”

“You haven’t said a lot though.” 

Steve turned to look at Robin again. She looked expectant. He shrugged. 

“Do you… want? To talk about him?”

“I’m supposed to, right?” He tapped the can in his hands with his fingertips. 

“You don’t have to.”

Steve chewed his lip. “It’s hard.”

“Yeah.”

The pool water lapped gently at its tile edges. Robin finished her juice box.

“We used to have this, like, joke,” Steve said finally, relieved the words didn’t crack him in half to say. “That if we were still together in a year we’d run away together.”

“That’s romantic.”

“It was stupid.” Steve said, but he was almost smiling at his hands. 

“It’s really not.”

Steve hummed a little. “Doesn't matter now.”

“Did you… want to?” Robin asked gently. “Run away with him, I mean.”

Steve stared into the neon blue of the illuminated pool water. He didn't respond. 

_ Doesn't matter now. _

Steve got more high when Robin left. Pretty much smoked until he physically could not keep his eyes open. He was too close to opening the floodgates. If he admitted to himself how much it hurt, it would just start hurting and never stop. He wasn't ready for that yet. Wasn't ready to stop holding his breath for something, anything…

Steve knew what denial was.

And he kept falling asleep on the floor, rather than his bed.

Because the only time he'd gotten into his bed since the fourth, he’d found one long golden hair and had to get up and leave the room for a solid ten minutes, just breathe in the hallway before he could face his stupid plaid walls again. 

Steve woke up- still on the floor- and saw the sun rising. Not a  _ great  _ amount of sleep. But still. He may as well get up. 

And he was kind of hungry for once so he went walking aimlessly around the house demolishing an apple and two pieces of toast. 

But then he just felt sick when his brain caught up with him. 

He should change. 

Shower, maybe. He usually took way better care of himself than this. 

The floor in the kitchen was cold. Steve looked at the ceiling. 

What the fuck was he even  _ doing? _

Like flicking a lighter, suddenly Steve felt anger lighting up in his stomach. Still staring at the ceiling he had to grimace just to hold it back. He could do something. Anything. He could throw his apple core across the room- better yet break his mother’s favorite wine glass, still drying in the rack. He could crash his car- but that might kill him. 

He could burn the whole house down. 

But quickly as it came, the anger was gone. And he was just a dumb teenager standing in his kitchen in pajamas that left his skin sour.

He needed to get out. Go somewhere. 

Which is how he ended up here, at the graveyard, standing by his car door with roses in his hand. Hoping to God he’d find it in himself to put one foot in front of the other in the dewy morning, and walk to as close as he’d ever get to Billy ever again. 

Just stand there maybe. Or maybe he should say something- hey, look at that. He could walk. 

And maybe the universe would give him a break, and he’d actually feel a tiny bit better if he ran his hand over the gravestone and murmured one more ‘I love you’ and left his silly roses that would only ever piss Billy off-

Steve tripped. 

He caught his balance a millisecond before falling flat on his face- plus, crashing into some rando’s grave seemed kind of, rude, you know. But Steve turned around and there was like, a full on shovel left on the ground. Just. There. 

Weird. 

Steve turned around. Billy’s grave was supposed to be right near here, but-

“Jesus Christ.” Steve said out loud.

He’d found Billy’s gravestone-  _ William Hargrove. Beloved son and brother ( _ bull-fucking-shit) _. 1967-1985.  _

But the dirt in front of it had been  _ completely  _ dug up. 

Just a pit in the ground, with no coffin in sight.


End file.
